“Do you wish me to see Mr. Dryfoos?”

“Well, that’s about the size of it,” Fulkerson admitted.  “You see, colonel,” he hastened on, “I know that you have a great deal of influence with him; that article of yours is about the only thing he’s ever read in ‘Every Other Week,’ and he’s proud of your acquaintance.  Well, you know”—­and here Fulkerson brought in the figure that struck him so much in Beaton’s phrase and had been on his tongue ever since—­“you’re the man on horseback to him; and he’d be more apt to do what you say than if anybody else said it.”

“You are very good, sir,” said the colonel, trying to be proof against the flattery, “but I am afraid you overrate my influence.”  Fulkerson let him ponder it silently, and his daughter governed her impatience by holding her fan against her lips.  Whatever the process was in the colonel’s mind, he said at last:  “I see no good reason for declining to act for you, Mr. Fulkerson, and I shall be very happy if I can be of service to you.  But”—­he stopped Fulkerson from cutting in with precipitate thanks—­“I think I have a right, sir, to ask what your course will be in the event of failure?”

“Failure?” Fulkerson repeated, in dismay.

“Yes, sir.  I will not conceal from you that this mission is one not wholly agreeable to my feelings.”

“Oh, I understand that, colonel, and I assure you that I appreciate, I—­”

“There is no use trying to blink the fact, sir, that there are certain aspects of Mr. Dryfoos’s character in which he is not a gentleman.  We have alluded to this fact before, and I need not dwell upon it now:  I may say, however, that my misgivings were not wholly removed last night.”

“No,” Fulkerson assented; though in his heart he thought the old man had behaved very well.

“What I wish to say now is that I cannot consent to act for you, in this matter, merely as an intermediary whose failure would leave the affair in state quo.”

“I see,” said Fulkerson.

“And I should like some intimation, some assurance, as to which party your own feelings are with in the difference.”

The colonel bent his eyes sharply on Fulkerson; Miss Woodburn let hers fall; Fulkerson felt that he was being tested, and he said, to gain time, “As between Lindau and Dryfoos?” though he knew this was not the point.

“As between Mr. Dryfoos and Mr. March,” said the colonel.

Fulkerson drew a long breath and took his courage in both hands.  “There can’t be any choice for me in such a case.  I’m for March, every time.”

The colonel seized his hand, and Miss Woodburn said, “If there had been any choice fo’ you in such a case, I should never have let papa stir a step with you.”

“Why, in regard to that,” said the colonel, with a, literal application of the idea, “was it your intention that we should both go?”

“Well, I don’t know; I suppose it was.”